


A Possessive Determiner

by Berty



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Developing Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, Domestic, John Being an Idiot, John Is So Done, M/M, Sherlock Holmes Has Feelings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-24
Updated: 2017-03-24
Packaged: 2018-10-10 01:49:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,097
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10426515
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Berty/pseuds/Berty
Summary: “Pronoun. Go on,” he prompts.Sherlock takes a deep breath and John braces himself for the expected verbal onslaught to come, complete with derision, deconstruction of his argument and utter disregard for John’s feelings as usual.And then Sherlock stops.Just stops.





	

It’s calmly quiet in the flat – the kind of quiet that only comes after a case has been solved and before Sherlock winds himself back up to fever pitch about the next one (and, incidentally, those cursed to live with the man.)

The fire is burning lazily, from somewhere a clock is ticking and the muffled but ever-present sounds of the city run like a soundtrack under everything. Both already in their pyjamas, they are sitting opposite one another, as they have done a hundred times before and it’s…nice, John thinks. Or it would be nice if he lived with a normal person instead of a madman.

John is holding the latest BMJ and has been staring at a picture of a diseased spleen for the last twenty minutes without taking in a single word of the article around it. It’s not that the spleen is in any way fascinating, it’s just somewhere for his eyes to rest while his mind rattles around, desperately seeking answers and finding none. And like a sore tooth, he can’t stop worrying at it. It shouldn’t irritate him. He should rise above it. He should be the bigger man.

And there’s no point in lying to himself – that’s just not going to happen.

He takes a deep breath in through his nose, pushes it out fast and just says it.

“Alright. I give up. Why do you do it, then?” He rests his chin on his fist and waits.

Sherlock glances at him quickly, then straightens up, realising that John is talking to him, although who else he would be talking to is anyone’s guess - there’s no one else here except the skull, and John hasn’t been that desperate for conversation yet.

“Do what?”

From the blinking, John guesses that Sherlock believes he might have missed something important in an on-going dialogue that he’s been ignoring. He does that a lot. John decides not to tell him that he hasn’t.

“When you introduce me, when we’re on a case. Why do you always make me sound like a prat?”

Sherlock stares at him for a few baffled seconds before he says, “I’m almost certain you don’t need my help to make you sound like a prat as you do such an admirable job of it yourself, but if you’d like to elaborate, I’d be happy to explain.” His voice positively drips with scorn.

John flashes his flatmate a small, dangerous smile, puts down his magazine and leans forward. He pins Sherlock with a gaze. “This is John Watson, my assistant. Dr Watson, my blogger. John Watson, my partner. My associate. My friend.”

“What? Those are all accurate descriptors!” Sherlock protests, frowning at John.

“It’s not so much the words you use – it’s the way you say them, Sherlock. It’s always either condescending or creepy!”

Sherlock, having no sense of self-preservation at all, rolls his eyes. “I have no idea what you are talking...”

“No, but you do!” John insists over the top of him. He’s not shouting – he’s very clear on that. But he does lower his voice for the sake of Mrs Hudson. “You do! So why? Why do you do it?”

John realises that he’s pointing at his increasingly disgruntled looking friend. He folds his finger away and returns his fist to his chin. He can’t quite believe that of all the things that Sherlock does, all the annoying, rude or downright dangerous things he involves John in on a daily basis, that this is the one that has him so rattled.

“As is so often the case, you have missed the point entirely, John,” Sherlock says with his usual brand of obviously forced patience. His eyes dart away as he sighs.

“And as is so often the case, I’m asking you to stop being so bloody arrogant and cryptic. I’m not you! I’m not stupid, but I’m not…” John flaps an ineloquent hand at Sherlock, “… whatever you are. So, don’t be a dick. Just tell me. Just… try, Sherlock.”

He must see something in the way John is asking, because he eyes him for a long moment and John feels strangely like he’s being evaluated. Sherlock lifts his chin and narrows his gaze.

“You’re getting caught up on the nouns. That’s just semantics, John. Colleague or associate…”

John lifts a hand and nods. “Yes, I do know what a noun is, thanks.”

A tiny curve at the corner of Sherlock’s lips dies before it becomes a smile and John supresses a shiver at the sadness in that. He wishes quite suddenly that he’d never begun this.

“What you’re wilfully ignoring and what is plainly the most important factor in this is the pronoun.”

John blinks slowly but doesn’t look away. Sherlock watches him with an intensity he can feel like a physical weight. It looks suspiciously like he’s waiting for John to catch up, or some kind of challenge, but it soon flickers out with Sherlock’s sigh.

“Never mind. If it bothers you that much, I won’t do it anymore.” Sherlock plants his hands on the arms of his chair and shifts his weight forward to leave. “Just tell my how you want me to…”

John’s hand is on his chest without him consciously choosing to do it. Sherlock’s heart rate is elevated and his muscles are tensed. His face is all shadows and angles and eyes that suddenly won’t meet his own, but he doesn’t push back.

“Come on. You’re doing it…explaining. Keep going,” John scrapes out of a suddenly dry throat. He attempts a smile. “Your brain might be hurting, coming down to my level, but mine is enjoying the break.”

It’s not a good joke. It’s not really a joke at all, but it does what it was meant to do. Sherlock twitches a tiny, almost smile and leans back in his chair, crossing his arms. He doesn’t look happy; John can see there’s too much discomfort thrumming through him for that. He’s not leaving though, and John considers that a win. They’re getting close to something and John’s never been a coward once he’s committed to a course of action, not even when he suspects it’s about to turn to shit.

“Pronoun. Go on,” he prompts.

Sherlock takes a deep breath and John braces himself for the expected verbal onslaught to come, complete with derision, deconstruction of his argument and utter disregard for John’s feelings as usual.

And then Sherlock stops.

Just stops.

It’s like he deflates. His arms flop over the sides of his chair, he tips his head back and closes his eyes.

The seconds tick by. John swallows and worries at a thumbnail with his teeth.

He’s broken Sherlock.

This isn’t a mind palace thing – John knows what those look like. And it’s not a ‘you’re too stupid to understand’ moment. There’re no theatrics, no glowering, no nose in the air, no cutting insults. Nothing. John is now definitely worried.

“In order to be able to refer to something as ‘my’, one has to assume possession of said thing,” Sherlock begins quietly. “My hair. My mug. My mistake. When it comes to people, of course, it can be applied to someone whose services you engage in some way – my tailor, my dentist or it can imply a more personal relationship. The number of people I can introduce using the latter definition is… well, you can imagine that it’s not a terribly significant number. My parents, my brother…” he trails off and finally, _finally_ brings his gaze back to John. He sounds as weary as his face looks.

“I’m sure you’ve noticed that I don’t have friends, John. People don’t, as a rule, stick around long enough to be ‘my’ anything. And the novelty of it, the stunning improbability of you…” Sherlock looks away again, jerky, like he’s been burned. He steeples his hands under his chin and seems to be searching for the right words.

John would love to help him with that but he’s not sure he could speak, even if he wanted to. There’s not enough air.

“It’s not about what you are, John,” Sherlock tells him slowly, his voice as deep as he’s ever heard it. “Just pick one - doctor, partner, associate, something else – I don’t care. It’s that you… are… mine.”

They sit in silence for what feels like hours. John stares at Sherlock and Sherlock stares at the floor. When it feels like all the air in the room has finally trickled away and the only thing left to do is suffocate, Sherlock stands up. John doesn’t try to stop him this time when he steps around his chair and walks to his bedroom. His door clicks shut so quietly John is convinced that after the air, the next thing to go will be sound. Then light. Then heat.

That’s okay. He doesn’t deserve any of those things anyway.

His stomach rolls, even as his mind has slid into an eerie stillness.

It feels like the last eighteen months of his life have never happened. He’s the shell that came back from Afghanistan again – a John Watson shaped space. All the places that Sherlock has filled inside him with companionship, worth and purpose are drained away. He feels hollowed out, echoing and empty.

The second day they met, only the _second day,_ John promised himself he would never be like the Donovans and the Andersons of this world. Just because Sherlock either ignored them or retaliated when they mocked him, didn’t mean the man wasn’t capable of being hurt. John didn’t even need to know whether he was or he wasn’t affected by the comments – it was something he would never willingly or knowingly do. Sherlock was extraordinary, unique, and whether he cared or not, whether he was the most fucking annoying man in the whole world or not, John decided that he would believe in him, accept him as he was. Because what he was, was magnificent.

And with ten minutes conversation and a petty complaint he has ruined everything.

John’s mind slowly begins to work again. He recalls every instance where Sherlock has referred to him as ‘my’. Now he knows what he is looking for, it’s so obvious, as the man himself would say. In a single word, a tiny everyday part of speech, Sherlock has shown his attachment to John, his pride in him and his importance. And John has missed it. Every single time.

Had he had as many opportunities to introduce Sherlock, he wonders how he would have done it. Sherlock Holmes, my flatmate. Sherlock Holmes, my colleague. My partner. All true to a point.

Or he could have been honest.

Sherlock Holmes, my best friend.

My salvation.

My infatuation.

My pain in the arse, gorgeous, brilliant bastard and the unwitting star of my most secret and frankly dirty fantasies…

Right then.

His hands don’t shake as he fills the kettle and puts it on to boil. They don’t even shake when he’s locked up, made the fire safe and poured the water over the tea bags. He fixes Sherlock’s tea and his own, and doesn’t think about how many times he’s done just that because then he might start wondering about how many more times he’ll have the opportunity to do so.

He picks up the mugs, switches the kitchen light off with his elbow and walks down the hall to Sherlock’s door. Awkwardly shifting both mugs into one hand, he doesn’t give Sherlock the chance to refuse him, just opens the door and steps inside.

The curtains aren’t drawn and he hasn’t bothered to get beneath the sheets, but Sherlock doesn’t make any move to acknowledge John’s entrance. In the dark room, he’s a darker, tense shape, his dressing gown wrapped tight around him as he lies on his side, facing the door.

John puts down the tea on the table beside Sherlock’s bed.

“I didn’t understand. I… I’m sorry.” He clears his throat, for what it’s worth as his voice still comes out hoarse and forced. “You can call me what you like, as long as it’s… yours. I don’t care. But if I had to choose, right now, it would be ‘your friend’. I’d like you to say, ‘John Watson, my friend.’ If that’s alright with you.”

Sherlock doesn’t move, but John can see the reflection of the streetlights in his eyes.

He closes the door behind him, switches out the final lights and walks up the stairs to his room.

Friend will do for now.

Anything more he will have to earn.

Fin


End file.
